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Audio receiver, track one. He adjusted the frequency level and pushed away the tray. A clump of collard greens sat resolutely in the center of a white plate. Any moment, she would ask him when he was going to eat it. He could see the look on her face describing a long list of catastrophes: the inevitable outcome of deficiencies in vitamins A and C. He fed more bass to speaker B. Head like a hole, black as your soul, the room reverberated. Green as his guilt. It's not that I don't like what you make, Mom, he would apologize, maybe later. Later he'd be outta there. Hang with the guys. Throw Arnie on the boob tube and pull some bong. In anticipation of the bongish bliss, he altered the state of his surround sound to Theater and imagined a stage in his life when he could go out in the cold without a coat, lose his glasses, pick his nose or his ass or fart if he felt like it, leave the blinds down and the toilet seat up, and, above all, eat whatever he damn well chose. He recalled her sitting next to him, her ...